Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook's MVP Powers in Another World! Chapter 110 :I should’ve made a bet with you

Crawford sent Malik back in, giving Kamara his first breather of the night.

The veteran center cracked his knuckles as he jogged onto the court, his eyes locked on Derrick Langley—the man who’d humiliated him last ga. Tonight, Malik swore silently, would be different.

He turned to Ryan, the other starter who’d been grinding non-stop, sweat gleaming under Iron Vault Arena’s unforgiving lights. "You good to keep going?" Crawford asked, voice low.

Ryan’s jersey clung to his back, drenched from the first-quarter onslaught, but his breathing was steady. The kid had lungs like a marathon runner.

Ryan nodded, wiping his brow. "No problem, Coach."

The ga roared back to life, Iron City’s neon pulse thumping through the stands.

The scent of popcorn and sweat mixed with the faint tallic tang of the arena’s steel beams, a signature aroma of Iron Vault’s gritty charm.

The Roarers stuck to their plan, doubling Lamar Dixon with relentless pressure. Stanley and Ryan sward him like wolves, arms wide, cutting off his air. But, as Crawford had warned, Lumina’s role players started to heat up—Callaway and Derrick finding shots, their buckets a reminder you can’t ice everyone forever.

And Lumina made so adjustnts. A few possessions, they slowed it down, swung the ball around, and found Lamar again off the ball. You couldn’t double him without the ball, and by the ti he caught it, the trap was too late. Lamar needed just a sliver of space—a half-second glitch—and he’d torch you with a jumper or a di.

Still, the Roarers’ backcourt dynamos, Ryan and Darius, kept the fire alive. Ryan danced through defenses, his crossovers a blur, while Darius slashed like a blade. They traded blows with Lumina, the lead flipping back and forth—a streetball showdown under the arena’s haze. Ryan drained a pull-up jumper, Darius answered with a driving layup, and the Roarers matched Lumina’s every punch. Second quarter done: Roarers 67, Lumina 68, a one-point razor’s edge that had Iron City’s faithful on their feet.

In the Roarers’ locker room, the vibe was electric, sweat and adrenaline thick as the city’s steel-mill smoke. The team had played damn near flawless, their hustle a middle finger to last ga’s 41-point humiliation. They hadn’t stopped Lamar, but they’d caged him enough, his scoring clipped by their relentless double-teams. Crawford kept it short, his voice calm but firm, a coach who knew the war was only half fought. "Good work out there. Rest up." He pivoted to the third quarter plan. "Ryan, you’re sitting first—catch your breath. Stanley, Darius, you’re on Lamar. Double him, hard."

He locked eyes with Stanley. "Even off-ball, stick to him like glue. Don’t let him breathe, don’t let him catch clean. Anyone nearby, watch him. If Lamar gets the ball, drop your man and trap him with Stanley, fast. No hesitation."

The ssage was clear. Lamar wasn’t going to walk into his shots—not if Crawford had anything to say about it.

The team nodded, their focus sharp, sweat dripping onto the locker room floor, each player locked into the mission.

The second half tipped off, and the Roarers executed Crawford’s ga plan to the letter. When Lamar brought the ball up, the double ca early—before he could even size up the floor.

Off-ball, Stanley stuck to him like glue, a shadow refusing to let Lamar breathe. The mont Lamar touched leather, the nearest Roarer abandoned their man, swarming him. The crowd fed off it, their "De-fense!" chants shaking the hardwood.

Lamar kept moving, hunting cracks in the coverage, but the Roarers never blinked. Five minutes in, he’d only taken two shots—made one—good for just two points, though he’d found teammates for a pair of assists. The scoreboard stayed tight: Roarers 77, Lumina 79.

Back ca Lumina. Seeing the early double coming again, Lamar kicked the ball away before the pressure closed in. Running isn’t his default gear, and after the constant motion earlier in the quarter, his chest was already heaving. When Stanley kept riding his hip, he didn’t bother cutting or curling—just parked himself beyond the arc, catching his breath.

Two straight possessions, sa thing—no movent, no touches, Stanley still glued to him.

Jack "Mad Dog" Murphy’s voice bood from the broadcast booth: "The Roarers’ clamps are working, folks—Lamar’s running on fus out there!"

Sammy "Quicklip" Lee chid in: "Why no tiout from Lumina? Pull him for a breather, or craft so plays to get him open. This guy’s too valuable to let him fade."

Lumina’s coach had noticed, his brow furrowed like a storm cloud, sensing the tide turning. After Darius splashed a three, flipping the score to 80-79 for the Roarers, he burned a tiout, his voice sharp as he huddled his team, the clock frozen at 5:34. The crowd buzzed, Iron City’s faithful sensing blood, their chants a rising tide in the arena’s electric air.

Lamar finally took a seat, and Crawford didn’t rush Ryan back in. The guy had played every second of the first half, and with the fourth quarter likely to be a full shift, this was sacred rest ti.

The tiout buzzer echoed, and the ga resud, the hardwood slick with sweat, each bounce of the ball a promise of more punishnt.

Both teams’ shooters had gone cold, their threes clanging off the rim like junkyard scrap, the crowd groaning with every miss. Rebounds beca gold in this slog, the paint a war zone where big n battled like gladiators for every loose ball. Malik, the Roarers’ veteran forward, was on a mission—last ga, Derrick Langley had torched him inside, a 41-point humiliation that still burned like a bad tattoo. Tonight, he flipped the script, his arms a fortress protecting the rim, snatching defensive boards with the fury of a man reclaiming his crown. He grabbed two offensive rebounds too, slamming ho a putback dunk that shook the backboard. The fans erupted, their roars a tidal wave crashing through the arena, Iron City’s grit alive in every fist-pump.

With two minutes left in the third, the Roarers led 88-85, a slim edge carved from sheer will. Crawford called for a sub, waving Ryan in. The kid had rested just 10 minutes this quarter, his legs fresh, his eyes locked on the court like a predator spotting weakness. If all went right, he’d close out the ga without a hitch. Without Lamar, Ryan and Darius tore through the Lumina’s defense, their backcourt synergy a lightning storm, passes zipping like bullets. Ryan’s drives forced the Lumina to collapse, their bigs sucking in like a vacuum, leaving Kamara and Gibson wide open at the corners. Ryan dished to Kamara for a three—swish. Then to Gibson for another—swish. The crowd went wild, the Roarers’ bench leaping, the arena’s energy a live wire buzzing through the stands.

Third quarter done: Roarers 98, Lumina 89. Iron City’s faithful howled, their chants echoing off the rafters like a victory already claid.

The fourth quarter opened with Lamar back on the floor. Roarers ball. Ryan Carter brought it up, drifting to the arc, and once again he went straight at Lamar. No mystery here—keep testing him, keep wearing him down.

Ryan blew past Lamar with ease, slicing into the paint. Derrick Langley slid over to help, only for Ryan to loft the ball high into the rafters. Derrick spun, too late—Malik had cut backdoor, rising like a hamr in flight. He caught it midair and crushed ho the alley-oop.

Lumina’s turn. The Roarers’ plan was simple: smother Lamar, let the rest chip in scraps. But Lumina had clearly spent the tiout cooking up a counter. This ti, Lamar didn’t even have the ball. Callaway was the trigger man, Lamar trailing in his wake.

Ryan and Stanley exchanged a glance—no ball for Lamar, no reason to spring the trap. Ryan picked up Callaway; Stanley kept Lamar in his sights. Callaway crossed midcourt, took two steps forward, then suddenly shifted gears, exploding toward the three-point line. Ryan dropped his stance, ready for the drive—

—when Callaway, without so much as a look back, whipped a one-handed pass over his shoulder.

Lamar had just crossed halfcourt, hands ready. He caught in stride, Stanley lunging at him like a wolf. Too late. Lamar didn’t flinch—feet planted near the midcourt logo, he flicked the ball toward the rim.

The crowd gasped. Jack "Mad Dog" Murphy barked from the booth:

"Down eleven, and he’s pulling a logo three?!"

It’s a shot with lousy odds for most—but Lamar’s not most. Only one man in the league, Trey Yates of the Halveth Skyhawks, had made more from that range this season.

The arc was high, the net snapped clean. Swish.

Roarers 100, Lumina 92. Single digits again.

Before the inbound, Lamar stepped up to Ryan and grinned. "Heard you bet Yates on logo threes last ti. I should’ve made a bet with you"

Ryan just smiled, not biting. The last one he’d hit was off a system bonus—ask him to drop ten of them now, and he might not make a single one.